


Save It For The Break Of Day

by echoist



Series: Show Me Where Trouble Goes [6]
Category: The Following
Genre: Ass-Kicking, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Sightseeing For Psychopaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the weary dark of night, between black and white, there's a thousand shades of gray.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>(and I'm not giving up)</i>
</p><p>- Tina Dico, Break of Day</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save It For The Break Of Day

Paul gets them to Flagstaff before he's nearly asleep at the wheel, and they stop at a low-budget chain motel. It's the sort that takes cash and doesn't ask questions, but also the sort with cable and (they hope) a lack of roaches in the bathroom. Grace has so far proven an admirable hunter of unwanted bugs, but Jacob admits it will still be nice to shower without worrying about what's crawling up the tiles out of the corner of his eye.

It's late, and Jacob selfishly takes the first shower, stumbling out of the bathroom afterward in his boxers and falling onto the bed. Grace hops up alongside him, and he playfully pushes her away, her tail still knotted with dried lake water and sand. 'You're sleeping on the floor tonight, babe,' he tells her, and she ducks her head, whining softly. 'I know,' he murmurs. 'I'll give you a bath tomorrow, all right?' Paul pauses in the doorway to the bathroom, looking down at the pair of them.

'I suppose I should be grateful I'm getting to shower before _her_ , now?' he asks, and Jacob smirks. 'What, you don't want to climb into a tub full of dirt and dog hair?' Paul shudders, and Jacob laughs. Paul leaves the door open while the shower runs, and steam billows out into the room. Grace sniffs at it, trying to catch the coiling clouds of vapor in her paws, before turning around in hopeless circles.

Jacob leans against the door frame and watches Paul through the semi-transparent curtain, still not quite used to the fact that all of this, everything since leaving Virginia, is actually real. The filthy roadside motels, the car that smells faintly of sour milk, and leaving eleven states behind in 16 days – every bit of it, their own chapter carved out in history. Four dead bodies with the promise of more, the hot, aching bruise around his neck, and the sculpted form of Paul Torres, dipping his head beneath a stream of scalding water – that was real, too. He watches Paul turn his head to look back over his shoulder, watches Paul watching him. Everything is real and sometimes it makes the floor drop out beneath his feet, his heart leap up into his throat. It's too much, too light for his head, but too heavy for his shoulders and all the while, it's still never enough.

Paul shuts off the water and emerges from the bathroom, still toweling off. He digs through their bag for a pair of sweats and finds his last clean pair of underwear. 'We need to do laundry,' he says through a barely intelligible yawn. 'Tomorrow,' Jacob promises, lying awake under the sheet. Paul climbs into bed beside him, reaching out a cautious hand to rest on Jacob's hip. He waits a moment, and when Jacob doesn't turn his head, he finds the words. 'Are you still angry with me?'

Jacob rolls over to look at him, and can't resist running his fingers through the soft, curly hairs on Paul's chest. 'No,' he says, after a while, and realizes that it's true. 'I'm still angry with me,' Paul answers, covering Jacob's hand with his own, and glancing down at his neck. 'I'm sorry you ever thought I didn't take this seriously.' Jacob gives a small nod before Paul continues, chastened. 'It's just we've been acting like we're tourists, and I'm afraid we're going to make a mistake. My work's good, and César's is better, believe me, but when I think about what could happen if they find us?' His voice falters, and Jacob feels the breath when it catches in his throat. 'My god, Jacob, it terrifies me.'

Jacob moves his hand down to encircle Paul's waist and draws him close beneath the covers. 'I know,' he answers. 'I'm afraid too, I'm scared all the fucking time, but I can't help enjoying it, you know?' His lips twist into an apologetic smile, barely there before fading away. 'I just want to know I'm not some part in one of your cons,' he says quietly, brushing his cheek against Paul's shoulder to breathe in his scent. 'I need to know that I'm not going to wake up one morning and find you gone where I can't follow.' Paul's fingers draw up into a fist against Jacob's back, and he kisses his forehead. It's not an answer, but it's too late to argue and Jacob gives up without a fight. He lies awake for hours, wrapping himself in the reality of Paul, solid and warm beside him in this moment, and waits for the light.

 

They head out early the next morning after Jacob soaks the entire bathroom giving Grace her promised bath. She treats the tub like a small lake, and splashes about with delighted abandon. Jacob laughs, and tries to be gentle, but he's exhausted and dries her off more roughly than he intends. She licks his face anyway, and he wraps his arms around her still-damp fur, still trying to shake off a night's worth of anxious worry. They find a laundromat in town, and Jacob hauls in their pile of clothes while Paul drives around with Grace in the front seat, happily sticking her head out the window. His patience is rewarded with a small, inconspicuous corner store with bars on the window panes, and he clears out two more traveler's checks through the narrow slit at the counter. He slips the clerk a few extra hundreds to lose the transaction record, a fear-soaked hope clutching at his chest that the bribe will be enough. He rejoins Jacob by the wall of dryers, and hops up on a washing machine, watching their clothes tumble and spin. They don't say much, and Paul can tell with one guilty glance at the bags under his eyes that Jacob barely slept.

They change out a few things from one bag to another, tired of wearing the same clothes, even if they are (dubiously) clean. Paul offers to drive so Jacob can get some rest, and he agrees, flopping down against the worn upholstery. He makes Paul stop the car in Nothing, Arizona, so he can take pictures of the aging town sign and a few abandoned buildings. Paul leans against the hood of the wagon, watching him find the best angle for each shot, understanding Jacob's fascination with decay. They turn northwest at Kingman, letting Grace loose to to frolic for a few minutes before grabbing sloppy, oversized burgers at a drive through. Route 93 takes them straight through the Lake Mead Recreation Area while the sun is still high in the sky, and Paul has to admit that Jacob was right about the scenery along the road. It's beautiful, and between short naps, Jacob rolls down the window to take a lightning fast series of repeating shots, hoping to cancel out the motion at 65 miles per hour.

 

They cross the oddly named Colorado River into Nevada, surrounded by crisp red mountains, and before long they're passing through small clutches of communities absorbed by the ever encroaching urban sprawl. Paul spots a junkyard advertising used cars, and turns around to take a look at what they've got for sale. The Buick had been sputtering and coughing for days, and even after an oil change, new filter and two applications of engine cleaner thrown into the mix, it still occasionally grumbled before starting. The battery was surprisingly new, and while Paul had often dismantled or destroyed old cars for kicks, he was far short of being an authority on how to keep a junk heap running.

They pull into the lot through a barely open rusted gate, and park near a large building that Paul assumes must be the main garage. A grizzled bear of a man saunters out, wiping oil from his hands, and Paul steps out of the wagon wearing the friendliest face he can manage. Jacob hops out as well, leaving the windows cracked for Grace so she won't disappear into the mountains of loose and broken parts, or decide to play hide and seek in rusted body frames. He hears Paul explain what they're looking for, and after a moment's indecision, pulls his camera out of its bag instead of tagging along with the pair of them.

He loses track of time, shooting vintage cars on bricks and incomprehensible machinery stuck together at curious angles. He can hear Paul raising and slamming shut the hoods of various cars around the lot, which really amounted to the few vehicles not yet subjected to a mechanical autopsy parked haphazardly among the scraps. He disappears into the garage with the soft-spoken owner, and as Jacob edges closer to capture a collection of old road signs and license tags, he can hear them haggling over a price. After nearly half an hour, Paul emerges from the shadowed overhang, nodding his head.

'Jacob,' he calls over, watching him balance on a pile of half-rotted Mercury sedans to catch a shot of the mountains beyond. To Jacob's credit, he doesn't loose his footing even once on the way back down, and nails a solid landing after leaping from the roof of the last sagging vehicle. 'Take a look at this one,' Paul suggests, nodding his head at a Honda Jacob hadn't thought was for sale. It's a dark blue hatchback, all four doors oiled and intact, the interior a clean, light gray. Paul lifts the hood for him to inspect, as if Jacob had any idea what he was looking for.

'She'll need a new timing belt soon, but not immediately; the starter's clean, transmission's in good shape, and the exhaust system looks all right. The filters aren't exactly terrible, and the battery'll stand for a while, though I haven't started her up to check the muffler.' Paul gives the run down quickly, and Jacob nods, pretending to make his own assessment. 'What year?' Jacob asks, walking around the vehicle and inspecting the tires. They're worn, but they'll do, and changing them to another brand after they've traveled for a while will only help them cover their tracks.

'She's a '98,' the man answers, and Jacob reads the name 'Carlson' stitched onto his jacket. 'Best thing I've got on the lot right now. Wasn't going to let her go until you two hard-sells walked on in. Blue Book's got her listed at $4.5, but your buddy here just won't stop hassling me until I give him a better deal.'

'Edmund's says $3,600, old man,' Paul corrects with a smile, and to Jacob's eye it even looks genuine. He thinks Paul might actually like this guy, which would explain why they're debating a price instead of cleaning up a blood trail and burying the body. That, and the fact that the owner has at least two hundred pounds on Paul and an array of socket wrenches and crow bars close at hand. Jacob opens the driver's side door after Carlson (or whoever he is) opens it up for them, and the mileage clocks in at only 75,000. 'You can put 300k or more on one of these babies, easy, if you take care of it.' Paul whispers, leaning in. 'It's even an automatic,' he adds with a smirk, 'so you can take your turn behind the wheel.' Jacob punches him playfully on the shoulder, and climbs back out. There's a custom stereo plate in the middle of the dashboard, nothing fancy, but it's got an aux in jack and he fully intends to punish Paul with the contents of his mp3 player if they drive away with it.

They check out the trunk, noting the lack of a spare tire or functioning jack. Paul grumbles, but Jacob knows they can replace those easily enough, probably right here on the lot. They head back into garage, lit by an array of caged bulbs floating down from the rafters and Jacob starts sifting through the paperwork. Paul negotiates, and Carlson renegotiates, and eventually they settle on an even $3,000 in trade for the Buick with a sturdy spare tire tucked away in the back. He tosses in a small jack for free, mumbling half-hearted curses behind them as they switch out the plate and stick the paperwork and registration in the glove box. Jacob transfers their gear, making sure nothing gets left behind under the seats, and pops a dead girl's cassette tape out of the stereo with a fond smile. He leads Grace up to the back seat, and she promptly jumps in, enthralled by all the new smells.

 

Paul pulls back out onto the highway with a satisfied look on his face, feeling the engine purr and accelerate swiftly up the on-ramp. 'Better?' he asks Jacob, currently absorbed in fiddling with the stereo. 'Oh, I suppose she'll do,' he throws back with a haughty tilt of his head, and Paul smacks the underside of his chin with two fingers. 'We just got the steal of the century, man. Paul Alvarez from Bellingham, Washington is now the proud new owner of a car that might still be running 20 years from now.'

Jacob digs out a miniature music player from his camera bag and detaches the headphones, replacing them with a short auxiliary cord. 'And now,' he throws back, 'Paul Alvarez gets to put up with Jacob Barnes' favorite playlists.' Paul makes a pained face, but doesn't stop him from plugging the damned thing in. The speakers turn out to be in reasonable shape, but Paul's never heard a single song that issues forth from them over the next forty-five minutes of traffic. Jacob sings softly along, and the sound keeps his simmering rage at the other drivers just below boiling. They fill up the tank between Boulder City and Henderson, and Paul starts looking for out of the way motels.

'What, no glitz and glamor?' Jacob jokes when he pulls off the expressway and onto a side street lined with strip malls and pawn shops. 'You're not going to put us up at the Luxor and take me to see all the shows?' Paul throws him a mocking side-ways glance. 'I don't think the hotels on the Strip take pets,' he jokes, 'unless they fit in your purse or your name's up in lights.'

'Damn,' Jacob curses, snapping his fingers in mock disappointment. 'Oh well, Gracie,' he concedes, leaning over the armrest to rub the fur beneath her chin. 'I guess we're just going to have to vacation on a budget this time.'

'We all must make sacrifices,' Paul agrees, one hand on the wheel while the other sneaks out to tickle Jacob's side. Jacob squirms and brushes his hand away while Paul pulls in beneath a curious set of twin blue arches, parking just outside what might be the office. It looks like a decent enough place to hole up for a while, if old. Two stories of whitewashed stucco sit beside an empty pool, the entire lot under the protective gaze of a gigantic painted angel mounted next to the sign.

'Welcome to the Blue Angel,' Paul reads off the door, bemused. The door creaks when he walks in, and the aging clerk looks him over before offering him a terrifyingly low rate. He signs in as Anthony Sanchez and pays in cash, still too cautious to break out their new identities in a place like this. He knows they're screwed anyway if anyone ever managed to track down Carlson's junk lot, but he'd noted a purple heart and an honorable discharge from the army hanging beside a row of socket wrenches in the garage, and left with the distinct impression that the old man wouldn't be too cooperative if faced with Joe Carroll's squad of flunkies. He smirks slightly at the thought of Vince getting the beating of his life before heading back to the car with a key danging from a cracked plastic square.

'Well,' he tells Jacob, driving around to park near their second-floor room. 'You did say you wanted to see Freemont Street.' Jacob gathers up anything that looks remotely valuable from the interior before tugging Grace out of the backseat and giving her a short walk over the few grassy medians he can find. Paul throws their overnight bag over his shoulder and decides to take in a few more from the trunk, including the hard-sided case, before locking it behind him and hoping they won't wake up without a ride.

'When I said Freemont Street,' Jacob clarifies, outside the sun-bleached door. 'I meant the part they covered with a dome of lights and turned into a marketplace.' Paul shrugs. 'We can go there, too,' he promises, slowly turning the key in the lock and opening the door. Inside, it's actually not so bad; they've stayed in worse, most notably the Rotting Rose back in New Mexico. The windows are large, if filthy, and the bed actually has one of those coin operated vibrating machines for the mattress. 'I thought these things were extinct,' Paul says with a laugh, popping in a quarter and hopping onto the bed. He lies back for a moment before hurriedly standing back up, gazing at the bed with trepidation.

'Ok,' he admits. 'That was horrible, and I'm never doing it again.'

'I should take a picture of your face right now,' Jacob says, holding in a laugh. 'One more candid for the scrapbook.' Paul glares, and Jacob locks the door behind them, setting out some food and water for Grace. 'All right,' he declares. 'I'm going to undertake a dangerous expedition into the bathroom. If I'm not out in five minutes, assume I've been bitten by a black widow and cremate me.'

Paul scoffs. 'One bite from those little shits won't kill you, it'll just hurt like a bitch. It would take a coordinated attack from at least a handful to bring you down.'

'That's not very comforting,' Jacob throws back over his shoulder as he sticks his head into the bathroom and cautiously turns on the light. It flickers for a moment, but decides to illuminate the room after all with a droning buzz. The toilet is canted slightly off to one side, but serviceable, and the shower works, spitting out a few seconds of brown-tinted water before the pipes clear and a clean spray emerges. The sink drains slowly, but the mirror seems to have been replaced recently, and isn't even cracked. The blue and white checkered linoleum beneath his feet is peeling, but he can't find any evidence of roaches, much less a nest of lurking black widow spiders.

He emerges with his hands out to his sides, a surprised look on his face. 'It's not so bad,' he announces, watching as Paul fiddles with a small safe in the narrow closet. 'Bonus,' Paul answers, standing back up. 'I can take a piss without hitting any rattlesnakes.' Jacob smiles, and throws wide the dark blue blackout curtains to let in more sunlight. He snaps a few photos of the retro-styled furnishings, the blue linoleum tile on the floor giving the room strange sense of vertigo. A pattern of light blue sand dunes on the comforter makes for a strangely effective match paired against the odd, wave-shaped headboard. Two padded blue chairs sit beside a round white laminate table, large enough to use for meals, and though the paint is peeling in strips off the dresser, there's still enough horizontal space to spread out their things. A mirror shaped like an unbalanced boomerang catches his fascination, and he snaps a reflected picture of Paul standing at the window, looking up at the sky.

 

It's nearly twilight, and they find a diner down the street to grab a cheap meal. Their waitresses' nails click against her pen while she writes down their order, and scrape the side of the plates when she returns. Nearly an inch long, painted red with a sprinkle of faux gemstones, the noise grates against Paul's skin and he can feel the sound in his teeth. Her name tag reads Lola, and he glares at her back as she saunters away to the next table in four inch heels. Jacob tracks his gaze, reading all it intends. 'No,' he whispers. 'Not here.'

'I could get away with anything in this town,' Paul counters with a predatory smile. Jacob looks away, staring at the light reflected from the silver paneled walls. 'Yeah,' he admits. 'I'm sure you could.' Paul throws some cash on the table and drives Jacob to the famous Las Vegas sign as a surprise. They duck through traffic to stand beside it on the median, and Jacob stares up at it with a frown. 'I always thought it would be bigger,' he says, slightly disappointed, and there's crude joke on Paul's lips but he swallows it down.

The sun's beginning to set over the mountains and it throws the sign into just enough shadow to bring out the colors and create an incredibly vivid image. They pose in front of it, Jacob holding the camera out as far as his arm will reach. It's a ridiculous photograph, the sort he imagines he'd post to a social media site if he had ever bothered to have one. But they're smiling, the light lending Paul a curious halo, and Jacob imagines printing it out in full color and sticking it up on a mantle they don't have.

'Thank you,' he says quietly once they're back in the car, and Paul rubs his hand across the back of Jacob's neck. Grace is overjoyed when they return to the motel with a few leftovers, and patiently sits at Jacob's feet while he feeds her cold, greasy french fries. She licks the ketchup from his fingers and Paul watches, feeling like he's in some sort of movie instead of real life. This is his, _Jacob_ is his, and though he'd never wanted a dog, never seen the point of pampering a domesticated animal that would do just fine on its own, he has to admit that she's had some fierce moments. She'd protect them both at the cost of her own life, if it came to that. Paul can respect an animal with those kinds of instincts, and kneels down to give her the last bite of his double-layered cheeseburger.

'We shouldn't spoil her like this,' Jacob says, not meaning it at all as he ruffles her fur. 'I think that ship's already sailed,' Paul reminds him, and Jacob laughs. They spend a quiet night in, Jacob falling asleep on his shoulder halfway through an old movie on the tiny television set, and Paul can't help but feel disappointed at the lack of real, skin-on-skin contact. He's still so entranced by Jacob, still feels the need even in public to slip a hand beneath his shirt, or tease the skin just below his waist. Sometimes he thinks Jacob enjoys it too, like they're getting away with something far more private and intense than their great and secret escape. He wants to push Jacob down against the sagging mattress, wake him up with hot, wet, messy kisses along his stomach, reaching a hand down his sweats and stroking until Jacob's eyes flutter with pleasure, half awake and completely under his control. He wants to leave bruises, wants to sink his teeth into flesh where no one else can see, but then he looks at the rippled ring of marks still encircling Jacob's neck, purple fading to a sickly yellow green, and feels as though he's lost that right.

Jacob doesn't need protecting, exactly, but he'd never have had the courage to make it this far alone, and Paul knows that like a weight buried in his chest. Maybe it would have been better for both of them if they'd stayed behind, stuck to the script like good little minions. Jacob would have grown, would have known the thrill of the chase and the kill and in some ways, Paul feels he's robbed him of that. Maybe, he thinks, there's still time. And maybe, his mind counters, an angry second voice interrupting his thoughts, it's his job to see that Jacob never discovers those things for himself. If they'd stayed behind, they would have quickly become expendable.

Paul studied Joe Carroll for years, made him his role model in the execution of meaningful death, and hoped to someday rise to that level of complete domination. Creating a sense of devotion and purity in the act, making it beautiful and unique the way Joe preached romance to his students. But killing had never felt that way for Paul, not since he was twelve and pushed a bully down the stairs, breaking his neck in two places. Faith was not in his nature, but he'd tried, _oh_ how he'd tried for Joe, and then, for Jacob.

He would never have been content to wait on the sidelines while their mentor gave each of his acolytes their own chapter to play out, pacing and wondering when he'd get another chance to play the starring role. Jacob would have settled in, might have gone back to Emma, and where would that have left him? The thought leaves him cold, and he squeezes Jacob's shoulder, listening with conflicted interest while Jacob murmurs something incomprehensible in his sleep.

His anger would have led him to even more chance kills, quick seizures of opportunity like the girl in the alley, and the risk it would have brought down on them all would have proved unacceptable. Jacob would have turned his back on him, and he can't bear the thought. If Joe hadn't killed him, Jacob might have had to do it himself. The thought works its way beneath his skin, and Paul realises the latter option feels strangely acceptable. He knows that should trouble him, but instead it makes his blood calm beneath his skin, settles his heart into an even rhythm. Yes, he thinks, brushing the hair back from Jacob's brow. If he has to go out one day, bloody and forgotten, there's only one person he trusts enough to hold his life in his hands before snuffing it out.

He plants a kiss on Jacob's head and tries to watch the end of the movie, something with Cary Grant, but his restless thoughts only serve to send his eyes scuttling around the room. Paul briefly considers going out, grabbing the waitress at the end of her shift and ripping her nails off one by one while gagging her mouth to hold in her screams. He doesn't; he stays right where he is, and cuts off the TV, falling asleep with Jacob nestled at his side. He dreams about her, dreams about tying her bleeding hands with an electrical cord before gutting her, throat to stomach. His hands reach inside to root among the organs, and she's not quite dead, her eyes wide with terror and shock as he breaks her ribs one by one and slices out her heart in pieces. Paul never understood why Joe insisted on taking the eyes while they were still alive; if they were blind, they wouldn't have the chance to watch.

 

The next morning, Jacob finds a map of the city in the drawer where someone's usually stashed a cheap bible, and starts pointing out places they could go. The cleaned up portion of Freemont street is only a little more than a mile away, but Jacob is dead set on riding to the top of the Stratosphere tower. Paul agrees to the tourist traps with learned patience, and they find a parking deck where they can leave the windows cracked for Grace. She'd dug through their bag last night and strewn clothes all over the floor while they were at the diner, and Jacob decides they'd be better off with her along for the ride. Not to mention, if anyone tried to steal their car, she'd kick up a fuss and probably scare the would-be thief away. It's a cool day, especially in the shade, and Jacob leaves her some water before telling her to be good.

Freemont Street is amusing enough, cluttered with stalls of vendors hawking their wares and showcasing some of the town's oldest casinos. They grab breakfast at a buffet that deals in the strange currency of Vegas; the more money you've blown in their joint, the cheaper your food and drinks. They eat their fill despite its cost, and wander back out into the sunlit tunnel. Jacob makes Paul try on stupid hats, but Paul leaves with an oversized belt buckle depicting a wolf in silver and copper. It suits him unexpectedly well, and Jacob whispers things against his ear that make him smile.

Jacob takes more photos, and gets other tourists to take _their_ photo in front of recognizable locations, and before long they've spent hours collecting mounds of beads and fake flowers around their necks. He knows what they're doing, knows the more details they can add to their life life up north, the better, but he can't help but lose himself in the simple joy of being a gawker for a day. It takes forever to park near the Stratosphere, the aging building much more popular than Jacob figured, but he hadn’t counted on a car show, several burlesque acts, and a vast casino floor choked with patrons happily throwing their money away on rigged machines. They buy a ticket and the speed of the elevator ride makes Jacob dizzy as they step out onto the top floor of the tower. Paul buys them overpriced drinks in souvenir glasses, and they wander around the interior observation deck, strolling hand in hand to peer out the slanted windows.

'I can't get a good shot from in here,' Jacob complains, heading out to the platform itself, and Paul follows. He paces the entire length of the catwalk, capturing the landscape from every angle. 'I wonder what it would be like to jump,' Paul wonders aloud, a strange curiosity behind the question. He looks down at the concrete far below and leans out over the rail, lifting his feet off the ground. Jacob joins him, peering over the edge. 'Well,' he answers pragmatically. 'You'd hit the fence first, and if that didn't impale you and make goulash out of your internal organs, you'd probably land on the second deck and end up in the hospital.' Paul frowns at Jacob as he continues. 'You know, that one down there, which I'm pretty sure they built  _just_ to keep people from jumping.' 

'You never think about it?' Paul asks, looking out over the mountains in the distance. 'What it would be like to just let go of everything and free fall?'

'Not really,' Jacob answers, considering the concept. 'A few seconds of terror and then you're just a mess on the ground for someone else to clean up.' He pauses before adding, 'They say you scream no matter what, that you can't help it. It's a reflex.' 

'I think about it,' Paul admits. 'I climbed out on the roof of a hotel in LA once, during an air show. A jet passed so close over my head it nearly ruptured my ear drums, and then I just stood on the wall for a while, balancing back and forth.' Jacob looks at him, watches Paul's eyes widen with a strange sort of arousal as he stares down the distance. 'They sent someone up there to talk me down, and I just laughed. I wasn't suicidal. I just wanted to look down fifty floors and imagine what it would be like to fall.'

'I think everyone has that little voice in their head,' Jacob comments, as if discussing the weather. 'The one that tells you to run your car into a tree, or drive off a cliff, or in your case, apparently, jump from 700 feet in the air.' 

'Yeah,' Paul agrees with a shrug. 'There's a word for it that I don't remember. The difference is, most people never listen to it.' Jacob covers Paul's hand on the rough edge of the metal railing, licking his lips. 'I think we're pretty different from most people,' he says, a sly note behind the words. Paul looks up and smiles at him, all wolf and lion, every inch the predator.

'Most people are afraid,' Paul says with disdain, and Jacob wants to kiss him, wants to push him back against the jagged railing until he's leaning so far back the world turns upside down. He settles for raising his camera before Paul can hide and capturing his expression, the mountains red and bleeding in the background. Paul pushes the camera down, grabs him roughly by the jaw and kisses him hard, leaving Jacob breathless and leaning forward on the balls of his feet.

'If I ever jump,' he murmurs, still reeling from the sensation of Paul's tongue forcing itself past his lips. 'At least I know you'll go with me.' Paul's fingers come to rest on Jacob's neck, lightly tracing the bruises beneath his scarf. 'I'll be right behind you,' he says, his eyes fierce and Jacob wonders if that means he'd be the one to push.

He moves Paul's hands down to his hips before pulling away, forcing his breaths down into deep, even pulses. His heart slows, and he watches Paul reluctantly force the mask back in place like a suit of retractable armor. They strike up a meaningless conversation about the view, the suburban sprawl laid out below their feet, and the dimmed glory of Las Vegas Boulevard in the daylight, overwrought buildings competing fiercely for dominance like aging drag queens. The only other tourists enjoying the view don't speak English, Spanish, _or_ French, or if they do, they're certainly not interested in taking anyone else's picture, and Jacob gives up in frustration. An older gentleman in a three-piece suit approaches them slowly along the promenade, noticing their poor luck, and reaches out helpfully for Jacob's camera.

'Please,' he says with a thick accent that Jacob hesitantly identifies as Russian or Ukrainian, a friendly smile on his face. 'Allow me.' Jacob hands over the camera and they lean back against the cracked and peeling railing while the man fiddles with the settings. He clearly knows what he's doing, and Jacob is impressed. He takes several shots of them, altering the focus and the filters to frame the mountains perfectly in the background. In the last shot, the faded skyscrapers of the Strip are visible off to one side, the setting sun mirrored in the towering walls of glass like a strange and terrible fire. 'Thank you!' Jacob gushes, glancing through the shots. 'Are you a professional?' The man tips his hat to them with a flourish before replying. 'You could say that I am, yes.'

The light catches on a large gold ring on his right hand, drawing Paul's attention to an aging blue tattoo peeking out from beneath the cuff of his shirt. Paul's arm tightens about Jacob's waist, and he forces himself to smile, thanking the man once again for his kindness. As soon as he vanishes back into the tower, Paul leans in close and whispers against Jacob's ear. 'We have to leave. Now.'

Jacob pulls back, sensing the urgency in Paul's words, but not understanding their meaning. 'What's wrong?' he asks quietly, turning around to face the rail so no one else will hear. 'Vegas isn't run by the old mob, not anymore, but the new guys that have stepped in since the '90s are actually worse.'

'You think that old guy -?' Jacob tails off, keeping his voice hushed. 'I don't think,' Paul answers. 'I know.' He grabs Jacob's camera and fiddles uselessly with the buttons, trying to bring up its settings panel. He knows the camera was expensive, and he also knows it has wifi capability and can send data across any open network. After a few moments, he bullies the menus into bringing up what he needs. Yes, there's a local network for the hotel, yes, they're in range, and yes, there's a single file buried in the otherwise empty 'sent' folder. 'Fuck,' he whispers, slamming his hand against the rail. The group of tourists glances nervously in his direction, and he pulls Jacob back to the elevator without a chance to ask anymore questions.

'Act normal,' he whispers once they settle into the mirrored cylinder, and Jacob takes a deep breath, throwing his arm around Paul's shoulder. He slings the camera around his neck and examines their souvenirs, lamenting aloud they he can't believe they really paid $12 a piece for cheap glass martini glasses with the hotel's logo on the side. The elevator operator remains silent, but smiles knowingly, and the few other sightseers in the capsule chuckle sympathetically at Jacob. They cross the main lobby to the street outside, and walk as casually as possible to the parking deck across the street. Jacob can't remember where they left the car, his mind racing around whatever Paul isn't telling him, but Paul leads them several floors up and marches directly to it.

Grace jumps up happily when she sees them, unable to hold in a few small barks of recognition. Jacob shifts her into the backseat from where she's apparently been pretending to ride shotgun, and they work their way out into traffic. It's just before six o'clock, and the evening rush in both directions crawls along at a snail's pace. Paul's frustration and fear ride him hard, and he curses aloud the other drivers that cut him off in traffic. Eventually they make it back to the Blue Angel, where Paul parks along the rear of the building and motions for Jacob to follow him up the stairs as quietly as possible. He pulls his gloves from his jacket pocket, slipping his knife in the front pocket of his jeans.

They pace along the balcony, Paul pausing just to the side of their room. He listens at the door, and directs Jacob to stand with his back against the wall on the opposite side. Paul turns the key swiftly in the lock and throws the door open into the room, ducking out of sight to one side. Two silenced shots whiz past them into the darkness, and Jacob's eyes widen in fear. Paul throws himself into the room, tucking into a crouch and sidestepping a blow aimed at his face. He maneuvers behind one of two assailants lurking in the darkened room, and ducks back as a second swing nearly connects beneath his chin. He aims a vicious upper blow at the man, aiming by sound and the dim glow of streetlamps bleeding in through the open doorway. His strike hits home, the flat of his palm connecting hard enough to drive the man's nose up into his skull. He staggers to his knees, dropping his gun from hands gone limp and Paul kicks it along the floor to the entryway.

He takes a hit to the small of his back and whirls around, crouching to land a punch in his attacker's groin. It throws the man off balance enough to give Paul a chance to pull his knife from its sheath and land a boot to the first man's back as he struggles to rise from the floor. Paul grabs him by the ski mask covering his face, his fingers reaching through the cloth to gain a grip on his hair and plunges the blade up into his skull below the occipital plate. The second henchman gets in a kick to his chest, and Paul looses his grip on the knife, curling up into a defensive position beside the corpse. The butt of what feels like a .357 cracks against his head and sends him down to the floor, his vision swimming, a horrible tinny bell ringing in his ears over the rush of blood. 

Paul hears the metallic click of a bullet entering the chamber as if from a mile away and kicks out one leg, trying to hook it behind the man's ankle and bring him down. He never gets the chance. The professional hitman standing over him had yet to see Jacob, and stands confidently over Paul with the front of his body exposed to the doorway. Jacob drops him with three rapid fire shots to center mass, kicking the door shut behind them.

'They've got vests,' Paul calls out in warning, and moves to dispatch the other would-be assassin with the same, swift motion of his blade before he can rise to his feet. He looks up at Jacob, allowing himself a brief moment of surprise at his marksmanship. 'My father -' Jacob begins, but Paul cuts him off with a gesture, stripping the men of their masks and heavy black clothing. They both bear a vivid assortment of tattoos across their chests and arms, three bright red welts standing out on the second man's chest from where Jacob's bullets nearly pierced his Kevlar, and Paul wishes he hadn't been right.

He rolls the first man over to find a dagger emblazoned on the back of his neck, several faded drops of blood inked down between his shoulder blades. They each bear the symbol of a bull, though in different places, and the second man, the one who left Paul's chest sore, his ears ringing, sports a tiger crawling up his right arm. Neither has a single star, five-pointed or otherwise, and Paul realises they're only alive because the local boyevik made a critical error in estimating their abilities.

He sets the masks aside, still struggling to catch his breath, and leaves the rest in a pile while he pulls the comforter off the bed. Paul tears off the sheets beneath with Jacob's help, wrapping them around the lifeless bodies like lumpy, hand-rolled cigarettes. There's blood on the floor, but the bedspread seems as clean as they found it, so he remakes the bed to look as normal as possible upon first glance.

'I'm going to get some bleach,' he tells Jacob, and follows the same path back down to a narrow hallway at the back of the motel. Noting the absence of even fake security cameras, he pulls a thin bar of metal and a paperclip from his back pocket and picks the lock to the maid's closet. He closes it back behind him and returns to the room with a jug of bleach, a pair of thick gloves for Jacob and a hefty scrub brush. Jacob already has their gear in bags and is wiping down every piece of furniture in the room with a hand towel by the light of a small lamp. Paul tosses him the gloves and he puts them on, going over several surfaces twice just to be sure. Two larger towels soak up blood from the floor, and Paul goes to work on the linoleum, finding it surprisingly resistant to discoloration from the bleach. Jacob carries their bags down to the car, returning to wipe down the bathroom and wrap up the bloody towels in a trash bag. He moves to the safe, and asks Paul for the combination before removing Paul's Beretta and his Sig from the interior, along with some cash and a K-Bar that Jacob's not even sure he's seen before, wiping it down inside and out.

Jacob stands back, surveying the room. With the exception of two relatively slender bodies on the floor bundled in a set of stained sheets, everything else looks in order. 'What name did you register us under?' he asks, and Paul shakes his head. 'I already forgot. Someone who doesn't exist.'

'Cash?' Jacob confirms, and Paul nods. 'They didn't ask for ID, and I didn't offer.' Jacob nods, satisfied, and moves to wrap the bodies more securely for transit. Paul carries them down to the car one by one, offering a silent prayer to the watchful wooden angel over their heads while Jacob turns off the lamp, locks up, and hangs a do not disturb sign on the door. It's a tight fit to close the latch with both bodies squeezed in the trunk at terrible angles, and he's thankful for the sun visor that hides them from casual view. Grace sniffs at the bodies over the backseat and whines uncomfortably. Jacob does his best to calm her down, but she doesn't like the feel of latex gloves against her skin and shies away, curling up in the footwell behind his seat.

 

Paul remembers seeing an open construction site a few blocks away, and navigates the back streets slowly, cutting the lights when a fenced-in open frame structure looms into view. They park the car behind a large piece of machinery, shut down for the night, while the site operates under a skeleton crew. Paul puts on one ski mask and hands the other to Jacob, pulling a pair of wire cutters from his bag in the backseat. He moves slowly through the weeds, cutting an opening just large enough to squeeze the bodies through near a spinning cement mixer. A thick stream of concrete flows down into a rectangular pit, anchoring a steel I-bar in place. They feed the bodies through the fence carefully and then follow, rolling them over the side into the muck. It's noisy work, but the sound from the machine overrides the twang of a sheet caught against the wires and the shuffle of feet over dirt and scattered gravel.

The mixer covers them quickly with a heavy feed of cement in gloppy spurts, and Paul mixes their tracks in with the larger grouping of worker's boots imprinted in the dirt. The machine cuts off abruptly, and Paul hears the operator's door swing open. He ducks beneath the pipe and pulls the man roughly into the shadows, slitting his throat before rolling him into the open pit as well. He hops up into the cage, finding the levers and buttons helpfully labeled, and resumes filling the pit until it's even with several others in sight. Small favors, he thinks, cutting off the machine and leaving the keys in the seat before meeting Jacob back by the opening in the fence. He knows someone will wander over before too long to investigate why the mixer has shut down, or at least check on the progress of the pit, but they'll be long gone by then.

He starts the car and negotiates several blind back streets and alleys, coming out on the other side of a heavily traveled road before switching the headlights back on. They head out of town at a reasonable pace, blending in with the steady flow of traffic heading north on 95. Jacob pulls another garbage bag out from his pocket for their assailants' weapons and all five casings he carefully gathered from the floor, shoving the masks and dark clothing in beside them to cushion any sound. They've decided to keep the vests, just in case, and Jacob has them securely packed in the bottom of a large duffel.

They stay on 95 for hours, gloves back in their pockets, only stopping for gas and snacks as the night wears on. 'How did they know?' Jacob inquires, his hands still shaking as they pass Indian Springs. 'My guess?' Paul answers, his fingers tapping the wheel. 'Joe's called in a lot of favors looking for us. I wouldn't have expected the Russian mob to be on his short list, but it wouldn't be the first time he's surprised me.' Jacob shakes his head, confounded. 'I thought we were finally safe. I mean, maybe not _entirely_ , but at least far enough away that Joe wouldn't have lookouts around every corner.'

'When a man like that wants something, he's going to get it,' Paul answers. 'Come hell or high water. He's probably afraid that his grand design won't work, now that the second domino's gone missing. Probably thinks we made some kind of pussy immunity deal and told the feds all about his escape plan.'

'But we left the house in Maggie's name,' Jacob counters and Paul shakes his head. 'How does he know we didn't warn Sarah first,' Paul questions, 'just to lead the cops straight to Maggie and Rick? Once they found them, they'd find Emma, and everything else would go to shit.'

'As long as they haven't increased his security or put him in solitary, he should know he's got nothing to worry about,' Jacob mutters. There's an undercurrent of guilt in his tone, but Paul can tell he's trying to keep it from reaching the surface.

'Those weren't Joe's guys at the motel,' Paul offers. 'Which means his reach has a limit.' They were professionals, and bore the scars to prove it. His dream from nearly three weeks ago returns to him with vivid clarity, and Paul's almost glad he can supplant the militia crackpots from his subconscious with trained assassins. They were in it for the money and another rung up the ladder; they would have made the kills clean. Jacob reaches across the dash to peel one white knuckled fist off the wheel and hold it between his hands. 'When word gets back to their employers,' Paul says, barely keeping his voice from shaking, 'Joe's going to be up to his asshole in debt to the mob. Hell, they may take him out before Jordy ever gets the chance to break him loose.' Jacob smiles at the thought, winding his fingers through Paul's.

'So where did you learn to shoot like that?' Paul asks a few miles later, turning his mind away from the downward spiral of fear and and imagined suffering at Joe Carroll's hands. 'My dad used to take me hunting,' Jacob answers. 'But I hated it. He'd take the buck to some shop to get it stuffed and cut up into pieces, and we'd eat maybe one meal of venison before he drove the head up to the cabin and mounted it on the wall. I used to have nightmares about those things, dead eyes just staring down at me.' He glances over at Paul, something wary and apologetic in his expression. 'He called me a baby, said I was weak.' Jacob spits out the last word like a curse, and Paul briefly takes his eyes off the road to look at him. 'So I suggested he start taking me to the range, let me handle a different kind of firepower. I won the All-State Title the next year in small firearms marksmanship, and I didn't have to kill a defenseless animal to do it.'

'You didn't kill that man at the motel, Jacob,' Paul assures him. 'And he sure as hell wasn't defenseless. You downed him, though, that's for damn sure. Fuck me, I've never even seen shooting like that,' he adds, a note of pride coloring the compliment, 'but you're not responsible. The blood's all on me.'

'I would have killed him,' Jacob answers coldly. 'He had his gun aimed straight at you, and I panicked. If all that training hadn't kicked in and altered my stance, lowered my aim, I would have put a bullet straight through his skull.' He runs a thumb over Paul's fingers, and squeezes them tight. Paul nods, keeping his eyes on the road. 'That would have made it a lot harder to clean up the mess,' he muses, a tight smile lifting the corners of his mouth and Jacob huffs out a slightly hysterical laugh.

 

They dump the guns and clothes in an industrial dumpster outside a small town named Tonopah, every door and window locked up tight until morning. The bloody towels find a resting place in Fallon, a few miles out of their way before looping back down on 50 towards Carson City. Jacob's behind the wheel at that point, every ounce of adrenaline having vacated his system some time ago. 'Do you think we can stop?' he asks Paul wearily, drawing him up from a half-awake slumber.

'I'd rather we crossed the state line first,' Paul suggests with a yawn. 'For all we know, the same shitheads own everything in Carson City, too.' Jacob nods, and downs a cup of cold coffee before finally crossing over into California at Lake Tahoe. They stop for the night in Meyers, a small suburb to the south, lucky to find a motel staffed into the wee hours of the morning. Jacob checks in as Sam Winslow and pays up front in cash. The clerk, a student half-awake and thumbing through a textbook, doesn't ask any questions, and Jacob feels the relief bloom in his chest. A sign clearly reads 'NO PETS,' but they sneak Grace in through the back anyway, and she curls up at the foot of the bed, ignoring her dinner in favor of sleep.

Jacob peels off his clothes and tumbles into bed, his eyes closed before his head hits the pillow. Paul takes a quick shower to calm his nerves and wipe the grime from his body, returning warm and still slightly wet. He slides in beneath the comforter and wraps himself around Jacob, sharing his pillow and breathing in the scent of him, the smell of the road, old sweat and the faintest tang of dried blood. 'You would have killed that man,' Paul says, almost a question. 'For me?'

Jacob covers Paul's hand where it rests across his stomach, and answers, 'In a heartbeat,' before sinking into sleep. Paul presses his head against the back of Jacob's neck, kissing the soft patch of skin beneath his hairline. Perhaps, he thinks, his mind still turning over the admission, he hadn't robbed Jacob of so much, after all. When sleep at last wins out, he dreams of a city blanketed in fog, light rain brushing against his skin, and a light left on in the window.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: The Blue Angel motel was slated for demolition in 2011, but I brought it back to live a little longer. It's gorgeous, in a broken down, abandoned sort of way, and I thought it would be a perfect stop on the road.


End file.
